Death on the Beach
by SplatDragon
Summary: Whumptober: Arthur was weak, and hurt, and tired. Dutch tried, but there was nothing he could do, the soldiers weren't willing to wait for him, wouldn't show him any mercy.


**Whumptober 2019, #28: "Beaten" and #2: "Explosion"**  
**Bad Things Happen Bingo: "No-Holds-Barred-Beatdown"**

Arthur wasn't doing well.

All of them could see it. He was worn to his quick, dozing against the rock wall, wheezing and coughing as he tried to get the water from his lungs. His skin was horrifically burned, flushed red, welting, blistering and peeling. It hurt like a bitch, they could tell, but there was really nothing they could do other than keep him in the shade.

But, really, they couldn't blame him. He hadn't talked much, and they didn't know how he had managed to survive, make it all the way from the boat to Guarma. There had been no life-boats left, they'd taken the last as far as they could tell, so their best guess was that he had hung onto a piece of debris, floating in the ocean for who-knows-how-long.

The soldiers had captured them, and Dutch had done all he could to stay as close to Arthur as he could. And it had worked: Arthur had been chained at the back of the group, with Dutch between him and Bill. He was trying to do all he could to reassure what little of his family was with them, but there was little he could do, bound and trussed as he was, resorting to running his mouth, trying to listen to Arthur panting behind him.

And Arthur… Arthur wasn't doing too good. His breathing was harsh behind him, rattling even over Dutch's loud voice and the soldier's barking words, and Dutch could feel the chains pulling at his ankles as his son lagged, struggled to keep up on legs as weak and wobbly as a newborn foal's. He couldn't see him, but he could picture him easily, staggering along behind them, head hung alone, shaking as he tried to keep up, desperately fighting not to show his weakness.

He wished Hosea was here. Hosea would know what to do.

There was a sudden, awful _thud_, wood meeting flesh, behind him, and Arthur cried out in pain. Dutch twisted to see him as much as he dared, heart leaping into his throat, seeing "¡Moverse! ¡Vamos!" Arthur was hunched over, face drawn and teeth bared in pain, clutching at his knee where he'd been struck with the soldier's truncheon. Dutch clenched his fists but, seeing the soldiers aiming their guns at Javier and Micah, held his tongue, swearing that their blood would stain the sands.

They continued to walk, Dutch struggling with the way Arthur was tugging on the chains, lurching and limping more than before, favoring his struck leg, gasping when he walked on it. His blood boiled, more and more, and he wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around that soldier's neck and _squeeze _until his eyes bulged out of his head and his lips turned blue-

There was some relief, but not much, when the soldiers lowered their guns, and Javier and Micah were no longer in danger, but he only worried, more and more, for Arthur. He was walking slowly, even slower than before, his breathing becoming harsher, and he could only hope that he made it to wherever they were being led.

The sun beat down, hot on their heads, and he could feel sweat dripping down his face, see it soaking through Bill's shirt, dripping down the back of his neck. He couldn't imagine how poor Arthur felt, with those open wounds on his skin, the rest of it so cracked and raw it could all-but count as a wound as well.

For a moment, he thought Arthur had stumbled, until he heard wood hit bone again. Arthur was silent, and he twisted, fearing the worst, only to see his face blanched, lips pulled back to reveal his teeth, hand coming up to grab at his shoulder, only for the soldier to strike him again, slamming it into the bone of his hip. This time, Arthur cried out, groaning through his bared teeth, hunching to the side as he reached down to grab at his knee as it threatened to buckle, the soldier gesturing his truncheon at him threatening as another shouted "¡Vamos!" again.

Dutch was jerked forward as Javier and the others began to move, not wanting to risk the soldier's ire, especially with the guns aimed towards them. The chain jerked at his feet, and he looked back over his shoulder to see Arthur hopping after them, clutching his abused leg, before finally beginning to limp on it when it looked like the soldier was winding up his truncheon for another blow.

They only made it forward a few more steps, a few more words exchanged, when it happened.

He was struck again, the sound becoming horrifically familiar, although this time there was a _crunch_, the give of bones, and Arthur didn't cry out so much as gasp, wheezing and beginning to buckle. Dutch twisted, watching in horror as Hosea - no, Arthur, it was Arthur, his son, not Hosea, and they were on a beach, not inside a bank - started to fold to the ground. "Hey! Hey, hey, hey!" Arthur was on the ground, wild-eyed with terror, on his back with his arms up in surrender, but the soldier was approaching him, truncheon raised for another blow.

He lunged, trying to grab the truncheon before he could hit him again, but another pair of soldiers blocked his way, standing between him and Arthur before he could, the soldier slammed his truncheon into his shoulder, and he could hear bones shattering beneath it as Arthur drew his legs up, trying to curl in on himself, protect himself from the painful blows, "Leave him, will you? You're gonna kill him!" his voice cracked, and gave, and he couldn't blame it on dehydration or exhaustion or overuse.

The next blow struck his ribs, and Arthur couldn't help his cry of pain, even Bill lurching forward some to try and stop them, Javier frozen with horror. The soldiers were yelling at him, tugging on his arms and trying to shove him back, but all he could see was Arthur, arms up in a feeble attempt to cover his head, unable to move his left much, collarbone and shoulder shattered from the blows, his legs drawn up to protect his vulnerable stomach, blue eyes wide and pleading as he looked up at Dutch from between the soldiers, and Dutch wished he could say something, _anything_, to calm him down—he couldn't let him die, he _couldn't_, he'd sworn that he'd always protect him but he hadn't done the best job of that lately, but he would _not_ let him die, not on this godforsaken beach, he wouldn't let him die in front of him, scared and wondering why they were just watching.

But there was nothing he could do.

The soldier braced himself, knee on Arthur's shattered hip, drawing a strangled gasp from the man, before bringing it down on his chest as hard as he could. Arthur arched up with an awful gurgle, his heels leaving furrows in the sand, before going limp beneath him, his head lolling to the side, blue eyes wide and staring accusingly at Dutch, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Dutch choked, straining against their arms, calling out "Arthur, Arthur!" but his boy didn't respond.

"No, _no,_ Arthur _please_! Get up, son, get up!" the soldiers shoved him back and he staggered, only Bill's heavy weight keeping him from slamming into another soldier, and they shoved him forward as one grabbed Javier by the shoulder of his shirt and threw him forward, forcing him to either walk or fall on his face. The man's shoulders trembled, shaking violently as he stared ahead, forcing himself not to look at his _amigo_, at his _hermano_, laying dead in the sand. Bill was moving robotically, stiff and still, eyes staring blankly at the back of Javier's head, stomach churning.

'_No, Arthur, please. Get up, Arthur, get up, please.'_ Dutch shuddered, his vision going suspiciously blurry, eyes burning, breath catching in his chest and oh _god_ why couldn't he breathe? "Arthur, please, wake up. This isn't funny, son. Get up before they leave you behind. Wake up, Arthur, wake up!"

Dutch's world was exploding, falling apart around him.

His body felt weak, and he couldn't fight the soldiers as they shoved him forward, craning his neck to stare at Arthur, refusing to accept that his son was dead, that he had lost another member of his family, that two members of his family had died in front of his eyes while he stood helpless, and he had allowed the last to be arrested. Arthur was just _faking_, he'd leap up when he was taken off of the chains, grab one of the soldier's guns and start shooting.

But as the soldier's disconnected the chains from his ankles, grabbed him by the shirt of his neck and dragged him towards the surf, he didn't move. His head lolled at an impossible angle, jaw hanging open, still pleading although not even God could save him anymore.


End file.
